I’ve published nineteen novels, written lots of short stories, and (for those who like their cautionary tales with a dollop of irony) even co-authored a book on writing. And here I was, totally enamored of a manuscript that had deep structural issues. I should have known better.

Writers tend to want to share on social media when things are going well. We love to trumpet our happy news, and I’m certainly no different.

There are sound reasons for this. One is purely professional: It helps our careers to focus on the good stuff, to show the world new cover art, or to announce an upcoming release, the sale of a book to a publisher, an award nomination or great review from a major journal. Publicizing these things contributes to what the industry refers to as “buzz.” We want people to talk about us, and about our work, for the right reasons.

There is also a purely human reason: As I have said many, many times, writing is a difficult way to make a living. It can be frustrating, even demoralizing. We do much of our work in isolation, struggling with story lines and character arcs, and it can seem, at times, as though those tidbits of good news come all too infrequently. So, when things do go well, we want to shout it from the rooftops. And when those disappointments come, we tend to keep them to ourselves.

Which is why this is such an unusual post for me.

I’m dealing with a professional setback, and I believe it’s worth discussing publicly, because it represents, in many respects the very essence of what a writing career is like. Now let me be clear: In the larger scheme of things, this is a minor reversal, a tiny blip in the course of my career and something I will address and overcome quickly. But it certainly knocked me on my butt for a few days.

In December, I turned in a manuscript to my agent. This is a new project, the first volume in what I expect will be a time travel/epic fantasy trilogy (or more). In my excitement, I announced on Facebook and elsewhere that I had completed the book. I’m pretty sure I said at the time that it was the best work I had done to date. I’ve since been working on the sequel, and just last week I announced, again on Facebook and elsewhere, that I was 50,000 words in to book two.

The day following that most recent announcement, I received editorial notes on the first book from my agent–the terrific Lucienne Diver. And she tore the book to shreds. Poor pacing, lack of tension, slow development of my plot, flaws in the logic of my narrative that seemed to make things far, far too easy on my characters. There was more, but I’ll stop there because, you know, pride.

As you might imagine, I was devastated, and here’s why: A) She was right in just about everything she said; and B) I had thought the book was great and I couldn’t begin to imagine how I could have been so wrong. I’ve been writing professionally for over 20 years. I’ve published nineteen novels, written lots of short stories, and (for those who like their cautionary tales with a dollop of irony) even co-authored a book on writing. And here I was, totally enamored of a manuscript that had deep structural issues. I should have known better.

I wallowed in self-pity and woe-is-me histrionics for a couple of hours, and then called my wise and wonderful friend, Faith Hunter, who basically said, “Yup, happens to all of us. Get off your ass and fix it.” Which was perfect.

Because it does happen to all of us, and it points to several lessons that every writer, at every level, should keep in mind.

First of all, every manuscript has flaws. Actually, I would go further: Every published work has flaws. I have yet to read a perfect book, and I doubt very much that I ever will. This is why we revise and edit. This is why we send our books to beta readers and friends and agents for feedback.

This is also why every book needs a good editor. I don’t care who you are: J.K. Rowling, Neil Gaiman, Cormac McCarthy, Toni Morrison, the next World’s-Best-Novelist, or the next Self-Published-Sensation. Whoever you are, or think you might be, you need an editor. I fancy myself a pretty decent self-editor, and with some books and stories I am. But I can only see so much in any of my own work. I am too close to my own creative process, too close to my own narrative assumptions. I can’t possibly anticipate every potential issue.

Yes, it’s hard to hear from someone we respect that our book, as it stands right now, is not yet ready for publication. Lucienne’s notes hurt. Each criticism felt like a kick to the gut (or a few inches lower); taken together they left me bruised and bloody. (Figuratively speaking–my agent is tough, but not quite that tough…) But taking such criticism and using it to improve the work in question lies at the very heart of what it means to be a professional writer. If we can’t abide critiques of our work, if we can’t step out of ourselves enough to see and accept and correct the mistakes we’ve made, we don’t deserve the privilege of telling stories for a living.

Even in those first couple of hours after I received Lucienne’s notes, as I cursed and flailed and did more than a bit of whining, I also started to ask myself the questions that would move me beyond this setback.

Do I still believe in the novel? Yes, I do.

Do I still love the characters and the world building? Yes, I do.

Am I still satisfied with the prose? Yes, I am.

Can I do what’s necessary to improve my story and make it worthy of those elements that remain sound? You bet your ass I can.

I already have ideas that will allow me to correct much of what my agent found lacking, and I sense the stirrings of additional ideas that will overcome the other problems. I know I can do this. I’ve fixed flawed novels before. Nineteen times, to be exact.

I’m eager to repair this book because I do love elements of it so much. I want to see it in print. I want all of you to read it. And you’ll have that opportunity, because I have no intention of giving up on the project.

I’m a writer. This is what writers do. We write, we revise, we polish, we publish. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Keep writing. Enjoy the process, in all its frustrating, harrowing glory.

I knew that I would need to revise the book before it could be published. Kind of the way I knew I would need to rotate the tires on my car at some point. I acknowledged it as part of the production of the novel, but I gave no thought to what it actually meant. Talk about rude awakenings.

Today the Summer/Fall 2016 Blog Tour stops by to visit with my friend, New York Times bestselling author Faith Hunter. My post is about the process of editing Children of Amarid and the other books of my LonTobyn Chronicle for reissue, and about all I learned when working on the original books, back when I was a writing newbie. I knew so little about publishing back then, and was confronted with some difficult lessons. But I emerged from the process stronger, smarter, and better equipped to pursue a career in the book business.

Earlier this year, my wonderful friend Faith Hunter and I released “Water Witch,” a short story that combined her Jane Yellowrock world with the historical world I created for the Thieftaker Chronicles. Earlier this week, we embarked on a new collaboration, a serialized short story again bringing together Hannah Everhart and Ethan Kaille. The first installment appeared in Faith’s newsletter, the second in mine.

Today, for one time only, we are re-releasing the installments on our websites, so that those interested can get a taste of our story. However, all subsequent installments will only be available on our newsletters. So, you need to sign up to receive them.

Hannah followed the sound of footsteps down the narrow alleyway, keeping far enough back that the man she tracked was only shadows and echoing footsteps on the cold, clear morning air. Ethan would be most unhappy with her for following the tough — Nap, he was called — but she had overheard Sephira Pryce, the self-proclaimed Empress of the South End, when she sent her man to pick up a payment from Lieutenant Patterson. Patterson owed Ethan a half crown and hadn’t paid, and Sephira had been known to steal Ethan’s payment from time to time.

The byway narrowed and Hannah slowed, holding her skirts close to keep from brushing them against the barrels and crates stacked along the wall of the Bunch of Grapes Tavern. A hen and her clutch pecked at spoiled food on the muddy side street and the protective fowl cocked her head and spread her wings to make herself bigger, a challenge to the intruder. Hannah wondered how her prey got by without the bird making a ruckus.

From ahead, Hannah heard a sharp click, metal against metal. The earth heaved. The world tumbled around her. Slamming her back and down. She sat up, her ears ringing. Debris was everywhere and smoke—sharp and acrid—hung on the air. People came from the nearby shops and from the tavern.

There had been an explosion, she realized, and her wits were addled, as much as her ears were deaf.

The chicken and her clutch were gone.
***
Ethan had just arrived at the tavern and put in an order for ale when the bomb went off. The force of the blast hammered him against the bar and peppered the back of his coat with shards of glass. He managed to keep his feet, but his ears rang and acrid smoke burned his lungs.

He thought he heard whispers, realized that these were shouts and groans barely penetrating his abused ears. Determined to reach the street, and to help others do the same, he waded through the hazed air, past the twisted, splintered remains of what had been tables and chairs. The bloodied and wounded, too numerous to count, lay strewn across the tavern floor. Ethan saw at least two men who appeared to be dead. He bent, lifted one of the injured, an older gentleman bearing a bloody gash on his arm and several on his face and neck. Together, they stumbled out onto King Street.

The carnage within the tavern was replicated here. Wounded littered the street, blood stained the cobblestones. In the middle of the lane, sat the source of the explosion: a black chaise, its roof gone, its interior little more than a smoking carcass. Whoever left it had taken time to unhitch the horse from its harness — a small mercy. But the carriage stood precisely between the Bunch of Grapes and the British Coffee House, one a Whig establishment, the other Tory.

Which had been the intended target?

The question should have been enough to occupy his mind. But at that moment he saw a figure stumble from a nearby alley, her steps unsteady, a dazed expression on her freckled face. Hannah Everhart. What, in the name of all that was holy, could she be doing here in the midst of this madness?

One of the things that the first book did not do — because it wasn’t necessary to the plot — was to set up a nemesis for Jay Fearsson who would outlast the narrative of this particular novel. I mean someone like Leo Pellisier in Faith’s Jane Yellowrock novels, or Sephira Pryce in the Thieftaker Chronicles, or the rival powers in C.E. Murphy’s Negotiator series: a character who represents both danger and opportunity for the protagonist, someone who challenges my hero, who threatens him, but who also relates to his darker side.

As I say, there was no room in the first book for such a character. But in the second there is. His name is Jacinto Amaya . . . .

First, I am back visiting again with Faith Hunter, and this time Jay Fearsson, the hero of my series is interviewed by Jane Yellowrock, the kickass heroine of Faith’s New York Times bestselling series. Not only that, but fans of her books should know that Beast makes an appearance as interviewer as well. You can find the interview here. I guarantee you’ll enjoy it.

I am also back at the Magical Words blog site, with a post about the new book and all that it means to me. This was a difficult and cathartic book for me to write, and the post touches on why. You can find it here.

The 2015 Summer-of-Two-Releases Virtual Tour reaches a milestone today with the first of those releases. Dead Man’s Reach, the fourth and (for now) final installment in the Thieftaker Chronicles is out today from Tor Books. And to mark the occasion I have a lot going on. Over at the site of my dear friend Faith Hunter, you will find a new piece of original short fiction: Following up on “Water Witch,” which came out last month, Faith and I present the first half of another crossover story featuring Ethan Kaille, the hero of the Thieftaker books, and Hannah Everhart, an ancestor of Molly Everhart Trueblood, Jane Yellowrock’s closest friend. (The second half will post tomorrow.) Enjoy!

Finally, I have a post up at the Magical Words blog site on the history behind the action in Dead Man’s Reach. Yeah, I know — history is boring. Not this history. The book takes place against the backdrop of the Boston Massacre. Read the post here.

One of the first rules of writing etiquette — I mean really “How-to-be-an-Author 101” type stuff — is never respond to reviews. We have our say with the books and stories we write. Our readers get to comment on them in reviews, blogs, etc. And at that point we’re really best off keeping our virtual mouths shut. In fact, most of the time we’re better off not even reading our reviews. I know this. I understand the reasoning. I get it.

I just came within a hair’s breadth of violating that “Don’t respond” rule. Why? Because there are now two reviews of SPELL BLIND on Amazon that accuse me of “blatantly ripping off” the Harry Dresden books by Jim Butcher. I have, I assure you, done no such thing.

First of all, Jim Butcher is a friend, and I wouldn’t do that to a friend.

Second, with apologies to Jim, I’ve only read the first two Dresden books, and that was back in 2004.

Third, from what I know of the Dresden books, I have to say that the Justis Fearsson books are not really all that similar. They’re darker, the weremyste element of my series is quite different from Harry’s magic, and the plot lines of all three books in my series (SPELL BLIND is out, HIS FATHER’S EYES will be released in August, and SHADOW’S BLADE is written and in the early stages of production) are, from my perspective, pretty original.

So what has these reviewers so outraged? Well, they don’t like that my character is also a male private detective with magic. I wonder, if I had made my protagonist female, if they would have accused me of ripping off Faith Hunter or Patricia Briggs or Kim Harrison or any number of other incredibly talented and successful female authors, or if they’re just protective of Jim and Harry. I wonder as well if I had left out the magic, whether they would even have picked up the book.

One of them complains that I use “internal monologue.” So does every book with a first or close-third person point of view. ‘Nuff said.

They also don’t like the fact that a higher up in the Phoenix police force (my books are set in Phoenix; Dresden lives in Chicago, I believe) has it in for my main character. That, of course, is a trope that goes back well before the first Dresden book. It is, in fact, something that you find in nearly all great private eye stories. That’s what makes it a trope. Same with the friend on the police force. I don’t apologize for either of those devices — tropes are tropes for a reason. We authors use them, we play with them, we make them our own.

While we’re talking about tropes — the spirit guide who helps the magic wielder with his spell-work is one readers will find in almost any urban fantasy. Yes, Namid’skemu in my books falls into the category. He is really nothing like the talking skull I remember from the Dresden books, but his mere presence seems to be enough to tick these guys off. Again, I refer them to other authors who write in the genre. We all use this. I’m allowed to as well.

Magical serial murders? Jim was not the first to do this, and I am certainly neither the second nor the last. Another trope.

One of the reviewers objects to the fact that my hero’s mother died a mysterious death and that this is similar to Harry Dresden’s personal history. To be perfectly honest, if I was in his position, I might object to this, too. It is a striking similarity, one of which I was not aware until I read his review. If this is mentioned in one of those first two Dresden novels, it had not registered with me in a meaningful way. I swear it was not something I “copied” from Jim’s work. It’s probably too specific to call it a trope, but I will say that in fantasy novels of all stripes, it’s not at all uncommon for the protagonists to lose one parent or the other under mysterious circumstances. It’s a useful plot seed for later volumes. And I think that Jay’s relationship with his father, which is one of the strongest themes of the Fearsson books, sets it apart from Butcher’s work and that of others in the genre.

Look, I’ve been writing fantasy professionally, under two names, for nearly twenty years, publishing 16 novels — 18 by the end of this summer — earning a Crawford Award, excellent reviews, good enough sales to survive in a tough business, and the respect of my peers, which I value above all else. I would not rip off the work of a friend or a colleague. I don’t need to. I have plenty of good ideas on my own, thanks very much. Are there superficial similarities between my urban fantasy and other urban fantasies out there, including the Dresden Files? Perhaps. But read the books. Really read them. Jay Fearsson is very much my own creation. So are the characters surrounding him. So is my magic system.

If you don’t like the books, fine. I can live with that. If you like Jim’s more, also fine.

But don’t accuse me of plagiarism. Don’t impugn my professionalism and my integrity based upon your reading of one book. It’s not true and it’s not fair.

Last week at the Magical Words blogsite, which I helped found so many years ago with Faith Hunter, Misty Massey, and C.E Murphy, I posted about plotting versus pantsing. For those not in the writing profession, plotting refers to setting out an outline at the beginning of a project and allowing that outline to guide us through the process of crafting our novels. Pantsing — as in flying by the seat of one’s pants — refers to winging it, essentially writing a novel without having a clear idea of where it’s going.

I am have been, throughout much of my career, a dedicated plotter. But with the third book in the Case Files of Justis Fearsson, I was unable to come up with a decent outline, and so I dove in and just wrote the darn thing. That’s what the post was about (you can read it here).

Well, as I always do with a book, upon finishing the first draft, I put it away with the intention of coming back to it several weeks later in order to revise and polish before submitting it to my editor at Baen. Today, five weeks after completing the book, I began to read through the manuscript, unsure of what I would find.

I’m a little more than a third of the way through the novel. I’ve found some things that needed changing, and I’ve refined my wording here and there. But so far, overall, I like the book very much. In this case, it seems, pantsing was the write approach. We’ll see if I still feel that way when I’m finished reading it.